


Perspectives~Chapter Two~Part One: Meus Animus Sic Alveus

by PhoenixDragon



Series: Perspectives [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Gen, Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...</p></blockquote>





	Perspectives~Chapter Two~Part One: Meus Animus Sic Alveus

' **Meus Animus Sic Alveus ( _My Soul's So Hollow_ )**'   


  
_You take the breath you didn't make - What's left you did forsake - Lift me up my soul's so hollow_ **- Submersed**  


**5:04AM**

He spared one last glance at the shadowed lines of the Impala as he closed the door to the hotel room, but as his feet got started on their path, he never bothered to look back again.

Even though he very much wanted to.

He did pause for a brief moment, at the edge of the Econolodge's parking lot - but only to assess where he was heading next. He smothered the inner voice of doubt, blanking his thoughts as he picked the nearest direction that would take him out of town, his legs only leadening once as though they were as unsure of this plan as his heart was. He mercilessly forced his right foot to obey his brain's orders and found it became easier if he moved faster. Soon - all too soon - he was half-walking, half running down the side of the road, unconsciously sticking to the treeline, eyes straight ahead as his body surged forward.

He didn't stop running for two miles.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _"You shouldn't have said that, Dad -"_

"Oh, so now you're gonna start - you have somethin' to say to me, son?"

"Dad," he paused, reining in the plea that had crept into his voice. Begging wasn't going to help, it would only make things worse. Only whiners and losers begged, not the sons of John Winchester - and certainly not his 'perfect soldier'. "I'm just sayin' you could have handled that better - you know how he is with ultimatums. All you managed to do was -"

"You'd better be real careful here, Deano," John warned, his voice thick with anger and menace. "You might say something you regret."

Dean gawped at him, exasperated now and more than a little pissed. Seems John Winchester was still raring for a fight - and even if Dean didn't give him one, he'd still find a way to pick it.

Dean tightened his jaw, breathing through the anger that rose up to the challenge laid before him, taking a few seconds to pack it down and stow it to the back of his mind. He'd gotten rather good at that over the years, so there was barely an edge to his voice as he replied, shoulders tense with the effort it took to keep his temper. He leaned slightly to the right, focusing on his father's face until John looked back, Dean's gaze steady and hard, tone just this side of disapproving.

"You could have just accepted it, Dad. Given a little - now? Now he's not gonna come back, not without one of us dragging _him back - and I'm not gonna do it. Not today - maybe not ever. You went...you went too far this time," he could hear the note of pleading bleed back into his voice and swallowed it away, ignoring the lump that had managed to lodge itself in his throat. "He's...he's gone now - just_ gone _!_ Sammy _, Dad! When you wake up tomorrow and he's not here - how're you gonna -"_

"You wanna join him, Dean?" John's voice was deceptively soft, but Dean could hear the rage and threat underneath. Rather than be scared by this as he normally would be (nothing could scare him more than his Dad or his brother) all he felt was a weird throb of anger and betrayal. Everything he had done, everything that he had fought for, that he had put himself through for this family was being dismissed in just one sentence. He didn't know how to respond for a moment, too tired and enraged to think beyond the white noise John's words had left in his mind. Half his world had slid away, walked out on them while he just stood there like a fucking fool - and now the other half was hellbent on pushing him right out after it.

Anger won.

"No, you jackass - what I want _is for you to stop and think about what you have done for a change! I can't clean this mess up - and you know what? Even if I_ could _\- I -"_

Agony exploded along the left side of his skull and he had to jerk himself back to keep his footing, shaking his head a little to clear the ringing in his ears, as he cocked his jaw to check that it was still slotted where it was supposed to be. He caught himself before his hand could raise halfway to clap over the source of pain, forcing his eyes to meet his father's, Dean's face a mask of blank stone. It wasn't the first time John had hit him, probably wouldn't be the last - but it still hurt in more ways than one. And it was just one ache too many in a long day of them.

John gaped at him, shock at what he'd done flashing briefly in his eyes before it bled back into self righteous anger, the offending fist clenching and unclenching at his right side. He opened his mouth and closed it with a snap, before shaking his head in dampened irritation, snatching his coat from the back of the chair as he barreled past his eldest son, avoiding his gaze as he headed for the door.

"I'm going for a drink," he grated, punctuating the statement with a slam of the hotel door. The second slam in under fifteen minutes and the answer it gave was just as clear.

Discussion over.

With a sigh, Dean grabbed his own coat, pausing amid the thundering absence of sound to get his bearings before he followed his father out, shutting the door with a hushed click instead of a hammering crash of wood against frame. He turned in the opposite direction of John, knowing he needed his space. He'd pick him up at the bar later and pour him back through the door and into his bed. Right now, he had other priorities. He jingled the Impala's keys in his pocket (relieved that John hadn't managed to snag them before he and Sammy threw down) and slid into the driver's seat, resting his throbbing skull on the top of her backrest for a minute or two, breathing in the Chevy's comfort and silence.

Before too long though, he cranked her up, thumbing the volume down on her radio as he pulled out of the parking lot, pointing the vehicle's nose towards the backroads - knowing instinctively where his brother would be walking...

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **5:56AM**

It didn't take him long to find a car.

He had come awake to his surroundings a mile or so beyond the city limits, his sprint down the small service road had ended in a brisk jog that carried him another few miles along until he had come to a fork in the road. Instinctively he took the left branch, avoiding the highway and heading deeper into rural farm territory. The itch of being followed wasn't upon him yet, but it didn't mean it wasn't coming - and he wasn't thinking just about Sam or Bobby, either. There were plenty of things out there that would love to catch a Winchester flatfooted and exposed, with no back-up and no defenses readily at hand. He might not be as smart as Sam, but John wasn't known for raising fucking idiots, either.

He walked in an almost zig-zag pattern across the roadway, noting the deep ditches on either side with approval. Deep ditches meant irrigation, irrigation meant farmland and farmland meant that no one would think to look for him here. It also meant good cover if a vehicle came down this road - which, as unsettling as it may be - had not happened for the whole half hour he had been walking in this direction. It was too country for Dean's taste, but that didn't mean he couldn't figure his way around it. All he needed was a semi-working vehicle and enough fuel to get him to the next rural township and he was set.

He had only gone another quarter of a mile before he found what he was looking for.

It was a rust bucket, but when he gave the engine a quick once over, he found it would at least get him a few miles down the road. Maybe far enough down he could ditch it and get a newer set of wheels. He glanced around, almost as if this lucky break of a working vehicle in the middle of a field spang in the ass end of nowhere was a trap just waiting to be sprung, but then shrugged it off, fully aware that time was not on his side here. If he fucked around too much more, he'd probably get caught by one of the said farmers (or farm hands) of this field and fucked wouldn't cover it. Sure didn't cover an ass full of buck shot and some bill-hillies wanting to play pinata with his skull.

He walked around the rotting Ford truck one last time, checking tires, undercarriage and plates before popping the lock (yeah, locked in a field in the middle of bumfuck - doesn't get more ironic than that) and climbing inside. In thirty-five seconds he had the engine turned over and the protesting jalopy up on the gravelly dirt road, all of his concentration centered on keeping her out of the ditch and checking to see if anyone was chasing him with pitchforks or some shit.

Dawn was fast approaching now and he was all too aware of the need to get gone. Light meant people and people meant trouble. More of that brand of nuisance he didn't need - he already had a full plate.

As he maneuvered the bitching truck through three miles of crumbling road, hoping that no one would recognize it (would be just his luck if someone did), he caught his first break as the rough, bumpy terrain smoothed out to mottled pavement, then after another quarter mile, flat, two-laned black-top. The break, such as it was, only lasted about fifteen seconds - the old girl was obviously used to being beat to shit and was therefore unappreciative of the easier environment, coughing and chugging another two miles before conking out half a mile from civilization, leaving him to hoof it and/or hope for another means of transport.

He tried to coax her into turning back over, but the ancient machine was having none of it - dead on the side of the road with (another irony layered in irony) a full tank of gas, no less.

"Bitch," he muttered, soothing the sting of his words with a soft pat to her dash. "Well, at least you got me this far, sweetheart. Hope someone comes along and gives you a massive overhaul and the tune-up you deserve."

He chuckled to himself as he wiped her down with his overshirt, hoping to obliterate most of the prints he left on her, before heaving himself out of the cab, duffle slung over his shoulder. He ticked back and forth for a moment by the side of the road, unsure as to why he was waffling - as the longer he took, the more of a chance he risked at getting caught with a stolen (even if useless) vehicle. After another second of contemplating the road behind him, he swung himself back on the path he had chosen, watching the faded white line under his boots as he walked.

He had only been walking for five minutes at the outside before a rattling whine caught his attention and he looked up to see yet another truck pulling up alongside him, window down as the driver peered at him, assessing his threat status, he assumed. He must have looked okay, because as he slowed from a walk to a stuttering halt, the truck also ground to a stop, the gnarled, yet perky occupant of the growling hunk of scrap (though still better than the vehicle he had just vacated) had popped the passenger side of the truck, motioning him inside.

"Thanks," he grinned, climbing in and plopping the duffle at his feet, shutting the door with a snap. "Not many people would stop for a stranger by the side of the road nowadays."

"I ain't most," the old man gritted, smile on his face belying the bluntness of his words. "Beautiful mornin', ain't it?"

"Yessir," Dean replied humbly, quirking a relaxed grin back. He liked this guy for some reason - he had some spunk, though he looked to be one hundred years old. He was wearing the typical plaid that screamed 'farmer', rough canvas jeans sitting loosely on his gaunt frame, boots encrusted in mud and other things Dean would rather not think about. Even without the getup - the leathery, weather-beaten skin and the bright green cap that perched on his head would have given him away, the worn, but cheery letters across the brim shouting 'John Deere' in an eye-watering yellow. The old man peered right back at him, truck idling as he scrutinized his hitcher. Whatever he saw in Dean's face he must have liked because he started moving again, a twinkle in his eye, and a ghost of an approving smile on his lips.

"Where ya' headed to there, boy?" he asked casually, the query anything but. His gaze flicked over the duffle at Dean's feet, to Dean and then back to the road as he asked, his cap pulled low over his eyes though the sun hadn't yet broken over the horizon. Dean contemplated his answer for a moment, listening to the rattling groan of the truck's engine, brow furrowed in thought as he realized he truly didn't know the answer.

"Nowhere," he replied. "Anywhere - I dunno..."

He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable within his own skin. He could feel his throat tighten for a moment, and he had to check himself before he could glance towards the back of the truck, looking for what he was missing. Hell, he knew what he was missing - but wasn't he always missing him? He'd missed him for a damned long time, he was sure, maybe longer than he had even realized. He was aware of the old farmer's eyes on him, gaze steady, but soft - as if to give him some privacy.

Dean's surge of gratitude at the gesture was as painful as it was sudden and he had to clear his throat, quite sure that the man hadn't missed his aborted glance over his shoulder. He shrugged again, mouth twitching down in a frown before smoothing back out to a watery smile, eyebrow cocked as he let his eyes slide back to the windshield, though he really wasn't watching the road or any of the surrounding scenery.

"Whatever gets me the furthest, I guess."

The old man nodded, eyes just as far away, the shadows of the cab catching on the lines of his face and making him seem sadder and far older than he had a moment before. He glanced at Dean again, his eyes endlessly wise and knowing, though his mouth smiled kind understanding from under the ridiculously cheery cap. He flicked another look at the duffle and turned his attention back to his driving, patting the dash as the old girl wheezed to herself, breaking the shaky silence that had fallen over the inside of the truck.

"Wellah," he said, shuffling his cap around on his head. "I'm heading to Corydon, just the next town over - and I wouldn't mind some company. Can be an awfully long drive with no one to talk to..."

Dean took the invite for what it was and again felt strangely grateful towards this man who knew nothing of him and his life, yet was extending the hand of friendship - however brief it was - nonetheless. Shit, he could definitely use a friend at the moment, even if he could barely admit it to himself. Even one that he knew nothing about and knew nothing of him - so the thought was hardly an unwelcome one, in the end. Heck with it, he could keep him company, even if it was only for the next fifty miles or so.

"Sounds 'bout where I'm headed." He nodded, carefully not looking at the sly grin that flickered across the old man's face at that statement. "S'long as you don't mind."

"Not at all, young man," was the comfortable reply. He spared Dean one last glance, his eyes flickering between warmth and a curious pity, before launching into a mild tirade about the weather and its effects on livestock. Dean nodded at all the right places and interjected opinions in others, relaxing as the miles churned away under the old Chevy's tires, taking him further and further from all he had ever known as home.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _So cold. An eternity of it, stretching away beyond his comprehension._

He drifted endlessly, so filled with today, yesterday and tomorrow's pain, he didn't hear Alistair enter his tomb.

A snap-hiss of sound and a sulphurous stench filled his nose, even as the flare of sudden light blinded him.

You got used to sulphur after awhile. More than that, the lack of it filled your mouth with the metal bite of fear - and an ache for what had become Home.

"We have....much to discuss, Dean."

Alistair's voice rolled like cotton thunder, the sound reaching under the paper of his skin and tugging at his veins. It caught him from his thoughts as they rambled over the varieties of agony, snatched him from his ponderings of the reality of dreams and his dreams of reality.

And whether they were really the same thing.

At the end of the day/week/eternity - it probably didn't matter. But this is what kept him grounded. Kept him alive in the bowels of his own private corner of eternity.

Well, less private when Alistair came to visit.

But after a while, that too became a comfort.

Pain became a friend, even as silence became the enemy.

"I'm always so glad to come here and visit you. Takes me away from my endless projects," with an airless sigh. "But it is good - freeing _, if you will - to come down here and debate philosophy, humanity and the vagaries of the human heart. Don't tell me you don't love this free time together as much as I do - will break my heart. After all - what else is there to do on a Thursday night?"_

The boom of his voice crawled over Dean's teeth and into his mind, digging itself a hole to burrow into even as he twitched with protest at the scrape of sound.

Pain was a reality. Pain was the only _reality - this, he had come to learn._

If you took away pain, there was nothing left.

It was the nothing you had to be scared of. Pain was hardly a thought - it was constant, demanding, intimate and deep. Today he knew it well. Today, his agony was so complete, he was sure he dreamed it, even while widely, hopelessly awake.

"Let's discuss Loyalty, today, Dean..."

Where did he fit in?

What did 'Dean' mean? Did it have purpose, cause - a righteous fire?

" - Whaddya say?"

Was Alistair 'Dean'? Was He a twisted figment of his own imagination? Or was Alistair fragments of a pipe-dream to take him away from the real horror of silence and nothing?

"Dean?"

Or what if...what if he _was the dream - and_ Alistair _was the reality?_

What if 'Dean' was nothing but a fleeting day dream in the mind of Alistair?

"Fuck - fuck off _..." he croaked, surprising even himself. He thought the ability for speech was long gone. He thought the ability for_ thought _was long gone._

He wished Alistair would wake up and make this all disappear.

"Now, now..." Chiding, regretful.

Dean shivered on the verge of his disapproval, fear warring with a grinning, insane joy.

He could still make him angry. That had to count for something, right?

"That wasn't very nice, Dean." As placid and unmoving as the Mountains.

Mild, patient...unyielding.

"We discussed Manners just the other day, didn't we, Boy?" A rhetorical question that begged an answer on the tip of a knife.

The shriek of razor on steel made his mouth dry and his heart pound.

Lust or fear? Pain or joy?

Was there a difference?

"I thought it was a fine lesson. And as always, you seemed to grasp the...subtleties _of the discussion so well. Made me proud, it did..."_

Sorrow colored his voice gray even as light glistened off the living metal of his favorite teaching tool. The keen edge of the damascus eating, swallowing the Light and reflecting it back on itself, turning it into the creature known as Pain.

"Do you need a refresher?"

Sorrow bled black hatred into Dean's heart as he swallowed a sob, weakness nipping at him as he shook his head, wanting Alistair to stop, to leave him alone - as much as he feared it.

But Alistair prepared for the lesson regardless of Dean and his protests and pleas.

He was the Mountain - and he was unmoved.

Mountains can't feel pain. They comprehend nothing but themselves.

But this begged the question...

Were there really mountains?

Was there life from Before the dream?

Or - was it all in his head?

Did he always live here?

" **Fuck**." he rasped, past the point of weeping as he curled his toes in anticipation of the inevitable.

"Just let me know if this stings, hmmm? I'm trying to get a handle on this new idea I came up with. You don't mind working with me on this, do you?"

He tried to answer, to make himself more real in this nightmare of his own doing - but found his tongue skewered, cleaved to the roof of his mouth even as his lips parted to plead with his Master.

"I mean, I hate to set aside a full day's plans - but we can always discuss Loyalty and it's benefits and disadvantages tomorrow - don't you think?"

Alistair did the polite thing and removed the offending object from the cradle of Dean's jaw, the slide of the blade heard more than felt as it left it's self imposed slot inside his flesh and bone. He carved a new slot for it to rest as he leaned forward, eyes darkly lit with fond interest as he awaited his pupil's reply.

After all the teacher himself must be open to new and fascinating ways to learn. But he was only rendered disappointed in the end.

Dean was too busy choking on his own blood and screams to properly reply...

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **7:30AM**

The old man, known to his friends as Twig (though there were few of those left above the ground) and to the bank as Mr Birch Collins, looked over at his sleeping traveling companion, still unsure why exactly he had picked up a total stranger from the side of the road in the first place.

Not that he was sorry he did.

The young man (who had called himself 'Dean Forrester' - though somehow the name didn't fit, even as it slid easily from his mouth) had drifted off about ten minutes ago, his eyes just sliding closed as the truck rumbled and jerked herself down the country lane, the various potholes and uneven patches not seeming to disturb him or his rest in the slightest. Twig didn't have the heart to wake him, even as Nancy yawped away in his head about borrowed trouble and how it always comes home. He chose not to listen to his dead wife's voice (kind of his prerogative now, when she was alive, he didn't have much choice, bless her) but chose instead to listen to what his heart said, though his bum old ticker only led him right half the time. Her voice declared he was trouble, his heart said he was _in_ trouble - and not much choice about it either.

Besides all that, one didn't let down a fellow veteran.

He could smell it on him - trouble or no, this boy was a fighter, he had known war and all that it brought with it. You could see it in the way he walked, the cautious cheeriness of his voice, deep in his eyes where he held all the horrors he had seen. Twig had been in The War - he had seen his fair share of horror, but something told him this man in a boy's body had seen far more than he ever had in his very long life and probably all before he could buy beer on his own. So, trouble or no, rogue or not, Twig let him hitch a ride and was damn glad he did. He was sure he was a troublemaker in his own right, had probably been on the wrong side of the law more often than not - but what good soldier, what good _man_ , hadn't had his brush with trouble? This boy seemed lonely, too - lost. And those who were lost were bound to find themselves deep in it and be a Johnny's enemy even through no help of their own - and that was just facts.

He hummed softly as the old Chevy chugged along, proud of his decision and a little pleased with himself, Nancy's voice be damned. It had been a long time since he could be of use to his fellow man and it was a feeling that he hadn't forgotten. It was warm, it was right - and somehow, just by trusting him enough to fall asleep in his cab (and boy, didn't Twig know that must have been a toughie for such as the likes of him) it gave him a sense of fierce protectiveness that he hadn't felt in more than a decade. This Dean fellow had more than made his week, he had made his whole bloomin' year - all by deciding to step into his cab and trust an old man to get him as far as he could go.

That was the only thing that troubled him. Dean acted like there was something missing, there was something wrong. He didn't fit right all by himself - he seemed the type that would be best in the company of others, watching over those who couldn't watch themselves. So why was he alone? And why was he so uncaring about where he ended up?

That was the one thing that weighed on Twig's mind, that made his heart heavy with wonder.

What would make a young man like this run - and what was he running from?

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _He drifted, thoughts an incoherent tangle in his skull as his temperature steadily climbed, skin achy from fever and tension as the bite mark on his calf grew more and more septic. He'd cleaned it out, taken the proper meds - even gone to a hospital, only to beat feet when his latest alias failed him on all counts. He'd just snuck into his clothes and out the back door, staggering to the nearest vehicle left unattended, berating himself for not double-checking the insurance card against his ID - there were too many questions he couldn't answer (well, not brilliantly anyway - his brain having melted into goo hours ago) and it was only by the merest chance he even overheard the nurse discussing his 'special' case with the doctor. All it spelled was trouble with a capital 'T' and he was just too wiped to throw on his game-face and try to bootlick his way around the cops that were probably standing in the doorway of his hospital room right now putting out an APB on his sweet ass._

Stealing the car probably hadn't helped.

He called the front desk and extended his stay by a few days, pissed that the damned black dog was gonna burn through his credit card as well as his leg by the time all was said and done. He wished for Dad, he wished for Sam - and while he was busy wishing for the impossible, he wished for his mom and some tomato and rice soup. He wished he had moved faster, dodged harder and killed that evil fucker before it attempted to take him with it.

And he wished these fucking pills would kick in faster. What the fuck good are pain killers if it takes them fucking forty-five goddamned minutes to start working?

He rolled up onto his side, cursing the lumpy mattress with all its dips and springs poking out, determined to either impale him or dump him ass first on the floor - forcing his feet to swing up and around over the side of the bed, blood leaking bright against the garish comforter, the sickly sweet smell of pus and iron permeating the hotel room.

'Fuck me, I am so screwed _,' he thought wearily, watching with detached interest as his blood pooled on the floor below his foot, knowing this was bad - that this whole_ thing _was bad - but unable to muster forth enough energy to do anything about it._

"Probably just wind up fucking it all up further," he muttered faintly, eyes wide as the bright red across the musty yellow quilt patterned orange blossoms of rust, the combination enough to make his eyes ache. Or maybe that was the fever. "Simple fucking black dog, Dean - can't you do anything right?"

The deep ring of his father's tone (the imitation so close it was eerie) made him jump, even though it issued from his own mouth. He shouldered sweat off of his forehead and peeled his jeans up around his knee, bending at an awkward angle to get a look at the damage inflicted on the broken flesh, head spinning dizzily from tilting parallel with the floor. He frowned at the blackened edges of the wound, wondering if he could even stand up to get to the med kit across the room, or if he would just land spectacularly on his own face.

That was, if he didn't vomit Exorcist-style first.

'Fuck it. _'_

He managed to heave his delirious bulk to his feet, swaying only a little as he pondered crossing the five feet of space to grab the kit that only weighed ten pounds. He almost snorted to himself, but managed to stop (as even that small action might send him to the floor) and just did his level best to put one foot in front of the other, frowning in irritation that he didn't have another bed to fall across if he decided to make hotel floor diving a passtime. Seems double bed rooms were popular in this neck of the woods, at least before a certain black dog made lunching on kiddies the norm and not the exception.

Still didn't stop the tourists from flocking to their deaths in droves. This had only spurred him into action faster - which earned him a bum leg, a fever of 104 and a king fucking bed that currently had blood splashed all over it. Another reason to have two beds was the advantage of bleeding on one while you actually slept in the other - though it didn't charm housekeeping in the slightest.

It also made the room seem less...empty. Almost like -

'Like Dad will be back any minute. _'_

Though he was in a whole 'nother state, thousands of miles and too many months away. And God knows he didn't dare think of Sam - that was just...that was a fucking nightmare of a headache right there.

He lugged the ten pound kit (which felt more like fifty) back to the ruined bed, half hunched over as if closer proximity to the floor guaranteed not slamming into it and pawed through the contents, brain fuzzing and stuttering on itself as he tried to focus on grabbing the antibiotic ointment, gauze, hydrogen peroxide, tweezers and cotton swabs.

It only took him a whole five minutes of fruitless searching to find he was out of swabs.

Shit. __

He glanced blearily at the gore-splashed comforter, idea sparking in his head that would make him not only less popular with housekeeping (if that was possible), but also colder for the next two nights, as he didn't dare call the front desk for another blanket with the original one wrapped around the lower half of his leg. But then again, this was yet another example of why it usually helped to have two double beds.

Fuck. __

Ten minutes, fifty swear words and half a pint of blood later, he had strips of the comforter bandaged around his leg and two more tablets of antibiotic in his system. He didn't know why he had the phone in his hand, though he vaguely remembered calling Dad and mumbling something into his ever present fucking voicemail before calling it quits and hanging up.

Oh well, at least he had killed the black dog - so John wouldn't be calling him back to tear him a strip. He didn't have enough strips left - plus the fact it was almost a guarantee John wouldn't respond unless he neglected the job. Dean had gone this round a few times already - and it was becoming less fun the more he learned that his _ass was less important than some random douchebag with a camera and a picnic blanket tripping around raising supernatural nasties for him to gak._

Things became kind of vague during the next half hour. He knew he had cleaned up the hotel room, knew he had ordered pizza and paid for it when it came. Even knew he had downed a couple of slices and drank half a liter of water - but the rest was...fuzzy. He had no idea what was blaring on the TV, no idea if he had reinforced the salt lines at the door - and for some strange reason, he really didn't even care. Let 'em come! Maybe they could knock his ass out and he could sleep without shivering awake from fever.

Damn, his leg hurt like a bitch.

So he really wasn't responsible (not being in his right mind or whatever) for his own actions when he picked the phone back up and dialed Sam's dorm room. He couldn't be really held accountable when the phone rang and rang while he waited breathlessly for the sound of his brother's voice, the need to hear him more important at that moment than any black dog, or APB for fraud, or lack of contact from John Winchester or slowly bleeding out in a ratty motel in the ass-end of nowhere. Just to hear his voice - it would make this all better. And then he could rest.

"Hello?"

Dean's mind ground to a halt, his hopes to hear Sam were just that, really - hopes. To actually hear _him, alive and well and breathing air that was normal and safe. Well, it was mind-blowing, that was for sure._

He tried to muster up enough energy to speak, to at least say Sam's name, but his throat was dry, his lips were numb and he just couldn't seem to find the words. So he just sat there like some kind of freaky stalker, breathing on the other side of the line, soaking up the warm sunniness of his brother's voice.

"Hello?" More hesitant this time - almost uneasy. He should really hang up now - he was torturing the poor guy. Enough was enough. But...

"Hello?" Still uneasy, voice slightly harder from fear or anxiousness before it softened again. "Dean?"

He sucked in a breath and gripped the phone so tight he could hear the case creak. Squeezing his eyes shut, heart thudding in his chest, he clicked the End button, Sam's panicky voice vibrating in his hand before being cut off abruptly.

"Dean?! Dean-"

"Fuck, why did I do that?" he hissed to the empty air, checking the urge to throw the phone across the room. " Fuck _."_

He was still waffling on either disintegrating the offending cellphone beneath his good boot or calling Sammy back when the phone rang, causing him to fumble with it and almost drop it from shock.

'Oh god, please let it be Sammy - just this _once...'_

He checked himself before he could say the name, line open and phone to his ear almost before he could think about it, his energy levels and ability to just deal _at an all-time low. He didn't even have the strength to give his name, too tired and drained to do anything but wait. Let the asshole who called him do all the work._

"Dean?" He almost hung up right then and there, John's voice enough to spook him and piss him off all in one go. He just didn't have the mojo for this crap right now - he sorely needed to sleep and get his _shit together before dealing with Dad's shit._

Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.

"Hey, Dad - I killed it, don't worry." He tried to keep the bone-deep weariness out of his voice, dredging up some pep and pompous from god-knows-where to throw across the phone, not needing to alert John to anything wrong.

"I know you did, son," the closest John would ever get to praise. "I just need to know how you're doing there."

"I'm...I'm good - Dad, I..." He picked at the comforter (or what was left of it) hoping Dad wouldn't hear him lying out his ass. "Sorry I called, I just -"

Wanted to hear your voice. Wanted to assure you that I can do this, that I got this. Wanted you to come home. __

"Sorry."

"It's okay, boy - it's good to hear from you." Liar. _"Look, where are you?"_

"Outside of Bardstown, Kentucky - near the Indiana border."

"How about you meet me-"

And he rattled of where he was and the fastest way to get there and fuck _, Dean didn't want to do this. He wanted to hole up for a few days and get his head right, lick his wounds and move onto the next job. His leg was killing him, his noggin was not far behind and he honestly was afraid he'd crash the Impala if he tried to make a 12 hour trip to where his dad was currently at (with no sure-fire guarantee that he would even be there when he arrived). But he found himself answering 'yes' in all the right places, his crap packed and stowed in the Chevy's trunk before he could really question the good sense of driving all night with an infected leg, no sleep, heavy blood-loss and a temperature of 102.1._

Not to mention the fucking fun that was waiting at the end of this journey when John nosed out the extent of the damage the black dog had inflicted on him.

'Well,' he thought with an inner sigh as he told the manager he was checking out after all and yes, he understood that he still had to pay for a full night's stay.

'It's not like I haven't done this under worse conditions. _'_

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...


End file.
